


thus you drift, lost soul

by whiplash



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Friendship, Gen, Harm to Children, Insomnia, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jackson's all kinds of messed up, Reid's awkwardly intense and Drake's the only one who makes any sense at all. Also, there's some gruesome murders to go with all the man-feelings. So, despite the terryfing collection of  tags, it might not actually be that far from a real episode ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in a very theoretical season four. That's important for two reasons. One, there are spoilers for all aired episodes. Two, it'll be jossed as soon as the very first episode of season four airs. My assumption however is that Reid will return to Whitechapel and somehow find himself working with Drake and Jackson again. 
> 
> Also, please take the warnings seriously. Especially the ones about childhood sexual abuse and harm to children as those are key themes in the story. There's nothing super-detailed, but plenty implied and I don't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> Huge thanks to TheGoodDoctor for beta-reading!

”Another one?”

Reid nods, a slight and barely there gesture. He looks over your shoulder, frowns and then takes a purposeful step forward. You twist out of his way, allowing him to once again barge into your home. He does not go far though, stopping after just a few steps to survey the mess with clinical interest. You can tell the moment that Reid spots the bottles by the bed. His jaw clenches but he keeps his thoughts to himself. Once such a sight would have inspired the man to lecture you for hours. These days you do not seem to merit such personal interest.

You can feel the weight of his glance as he turns his attention from your quarters to your own sorry self. He looks you over with the same cool gaze, from your greasy hair down to your bare feet. Your toes curl against the cold floor and your spine itches with the urge to lengthen until you’re ramrod straight. Gritting your teeth, you force yourself to instead slouch as you walk past him. Ignoring the comb on your dresser, you opt to just drag your fingers through your curls.

You will _not_ allow that man to dictate the state of your appearance.  

Yesterday’s clothes lay strewn across the room. You put them on as you find them, not bothering to search your chest of drawers for a fresh shirt. After all, you’re heading straight for Leman Street and the deadroom. In your experience, those resting in that room do not care one way or another for propriety.

“I hope you’re not making it a habit to answer your door dressed in a sheet,” Reid comments, his back half-turned as he browses the books piled up on your desk. “I would not like to see you arrested for indecency.”

“You’d _love_ to see me arrested for indecency,” you immediately correct him, reaching down to lace up your boots. Abruptly the room tilts. Everything blurs and all sound disappears. After just a few heartbeats, everything begins to right itself. To your immense surprise, you find yourself still on your feet.

“It’s not even midday and you’re already soused,” you hear Reid say, his voice distorted as if he’s speaking to you from a great distance. The disapproval comes across clear enough though. “Or have you just not recovered from last night?”

“Take your pick,” you suggest, stretching your mouth into something resembling a grin. Locking your knees, you then straighten yourself inch by inch until you’re standing. The floor stays steady under your feet. The room does not tilt again. You wait, pretending meanwhile to brush dirt away from your knees. Eventually the sparks dancing in front of your eyes disappear.

“Well,” you say, pleased when your voice comes out steady, “lead the way, Inspector.”

xxx

Drake waits in the deadroom.

He nods politely in your direction, but then immediately turns to Reid. They speak in hushed voices, too quiet for you to catch the words. However, you do not need to hear their voices to make out the content of their conversation. It’s all too clear from Drake’s slumped shoulders and Reid’s pinched face that they’ve found no new leads. The killer has still to make a mistake.

Lighting a cigarette, you turn to the body instead. It’s been covered by a white sheet, with only a bare foot peeking out at the bottom. Dirty and bloodied, it’s roughly the size of your palm. If you had to put an age on the child based on the size of that foot alone, you’d say no older than three or four. In any case, you think, much too young to appear before you in this room.

You close your hand around the cold foot, squeezing once as you make the boy the same promise as you’ve made the boys before him. One way or another, you’ll see the man who did this to them punished. It matters not to you in the slightest whether the bastard’s hung by his neck in the gallows or shot through the head in an alleyway.

Promise thus made, you go to collect your knives.

xxx

The trick, you tell Hobbs, is to break the body down and focus on the parts rather than the whole. The hair’s just that; hair, and nothing more. Read from it what you might, note down what’s important and dismiss the rest.

Case in point; the boy’s hair, dirty and matted, has not been introduced to water nor comb for months. Has crawled with lice for longer still, judging by the sores on his scalp. A patch of hair’s missing from the back of his head, as likely as not from a struggle. And that’s what’s important. That’s what you allow yourself to jot down in your memory.

Not how the hair curls around the boy’s ears, or how that exact shade of auburn reminds you of your mother’s tresses peeking out from underneath her pretty bonnets. All such thoughts you dismiss. Exile them to the furthest corners of your mind, then lock the door and throw away the key. If a man gets into the habit of managing his mind in such a way, you tell Hobbs, it might well keep him from drowning in a bottle. Or throw himself in the Thames. Pardon me, you hurriedly add.

Hobbs doesn’t marvel at your hard-won insights nor does he rebuke you for your poor choice of words. In fact, he doesn’t answer at all. Being as how he’s been buried in the ground for nearly a decade, you suppose the poor boy can hardly be faulted for it.

xxx

“Here you go.”

You lift your head, squinting at the source of the voice. You find Drake standing by your shoulder, holding two tin cups. After all these years he still plays the role of the reluctant nursemaid. You spare a moment to wonder just how many hot drinks the man must have fetched you since Reid first brought you to the station. As you attempt the math, your mind sluggish with lack of sleep, the frown on Drake’s face deepens.

You hurry to snatch one of the cups. It wouldn’t do to give the fellow a chance to change his mind. Not when you have been on your feet for hours, with nothing to sustain you but your smokes.

“Most considerate,” you tell him, grimacing as you empty the cup.  Lukewarm, milky and sweet. Not a drop of whiskey in it.

Drake stays by your side as you continue your work, his back so stiff that he might as well be facing a firing squad. A kinder man would have dismissed him, but the company does you good and you are, as you ever were, a selfish man. When you’re done sifting through the contents of the child’s belly, Drake finally breaks. Wiping a shaking hand over his face, he asks what he’s no doubt meant to ask all along:

“Same as the others then?”

You grunt an affirmative. The tea has done unpleasant things to your insides, causing your belly to cramp and gurgle. It does not surprise you. You’re not on good terms with it, nor it with you. It objects to whiskey for supper and you object to how decrepit it’s turned in the past few weeks. Time had been when your belly only made itself known when you truly deserved it. Now it bothers you more often than not, even though you’ve obliged it by having remained sober for days. Well, other than the mandatory glass or two before bedtime.

“And same cause of death?” Drake continues, interrupting your train of thought.

So far, all but one of the victims had died from blood loss. One – the third one, in late November – suffocated on his own vomit before he could bleed out. This one had suffered the same fate as the majority of them though, his life blood soaking into the London mud. You could tell Drake as much, but…

“How about you send for Reid,” you counter instead, wiping your hands on your apron before searching through your pockets. Hauling out yet another cigarette, you add: “No need to go through this twice.”

Drake looks like he’s about to object, then glances up at your face. Whatever he sees there changes his mind.

xxx

You wait, perched on a chair by the wall.

Before he left to fetch Reid, Drake had gruffly insisted that you take a seat. Something or other about looking worse than the drunks locked up below for the night. You did not take offense, nor did you find that you much minded sitting down for a spell. Above you the electrical lights flicker. It makes your head ache and you close your eyes for a moment.

You promise yourself however that you’ll be on your feet the moment you hear steps approach in the hallway.

xxx

“Jackson!”

You jump, but through some miracle do not fall off the chair.

“We have not brought you here to sleep,” Reid says, towering above you with a frown on his face. The last thing you want to do is to encourage that man in his galling habit to look down at you. So, not thinking the action through any further, you jump to your feet to meet him eye to eye.

No sooner are you upright than everything fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Cold water pours into your shirt and down your back. You shiver, attempting to wriggle away.

Strong hands keep you from escaping, gripping you tightly by the arms. No sooner do you realize this than you move, a knee-jerk reaction that sends the back of your head slamming against the stone wall. The impact causes you to bite your tongue, your mouth filling with blood. Disgusted, you spit on the floor, cussing up a storm. 

The sound of your own voice – a man’s voice, rough with years of too much smoking and drinking – anchors you firmly to the present. You blink and turn your head, taking in your surroundings. The dead room of Leman Street. Sagging back in relief, you spot two pairs of eyes studying you; the first set clear blue while the other, half-hidden behind a pair of spectacles, shifts more towards green. Drake and Reid, your mind fills in for you. 

Drake moves towards you now, telegraphing his movements clearly. He eases one hand behind your neck to cradle the back of your skull. Making an unhappy noise, he pulls it away mere seconds later, wiggling bloody fingers to show off his finding. He then offers you a handkerchief, which you, still cussing, wad up and press against your scalp. It stings, though nowhere near as bad as you imagine it will once you find the time to clean it with carbolic acid. 

“It’s thanks to Mr. Drake’s quick reflexes that you did not break your skull on the floor,” Reid says, interrupting you with an unreadable expression on his face. “Some gratitude would not go amiss.” 

“Only for me to break it open against the wall instead,” you point out, turning away to spit more blood on the floor. Reid makes a protesting noise, but at the moment you could not care less for the man’s prissy sense of decorum. 

“I thought he looked unwell earlier,” Drake says, directing the words to Reid, “but I did not expect him to take such a tumble.” 

“Don’t fret, Drake. Nothing wrong with me that sleep and a square meal cannot cure.” Wiping water from your face with your sleeve, you pettishly add: “That is, unless I catch my death from walking home, soaked through to the skin in this weather...” 

They draw away, no doubt frustrated with your ingratitude. It bothers you not. In fact, you breathe all the easier for their absence. As you fill your lungs with air, the tremors in your hands still and your heart slows its mad pace in your chest. Even so, you can still feel the ghosts of Drake’s hands pressing down on your flesh. The memory leaves you distinctly unsettled. 

“Shall we?” you say, forcing down your unease as you struggle to your feet. Drake steps closer to help you, but you pretend not to see his hand. “The sooner we’re done here, the sooner I might leave. My bed calls for me, gentlemen.” 

And with that, at least, they do not argue. 

xxx 

You give them a full report, all along leaning surreptitiously against the table. If they notice, they do not comment. When Drake leaves to follow up on what might be a lead, Reid stays behind to lurk. Whether to harangue you about your habits or press you for further information regarding the body, you can only guess. 

You have no further insights to offer however. This child’s just like the previous ones. A street urchin, the last in a row of six over a period of three months. True, one might argue that the wretched creatures were born to die. Only these boys had not passed away from mere cold or hunger. No, these ones, these unfortunate six, had been made to suffer grievously. And so Reid had brought them to your deadroom. Your detailed summaries of their suffering and demise, dutifully penned down and kept under lock and key in Reid’s desk, has served no purpose other than to add to the grey in the Inspector’s hair though. The killer still haunted Whitechapel and the list of victims grew steadily. 

It nearly overwhelms you, the sudden need to be away from Leman Street and the stench of blood and lost innocence. 

“I’ve told you all that I know,” you snap at Reid, not willing to allow him the chance to harass you further. You continue, somewhat kinder: “Tomorrow, I shall even pen my findings down for you, Reid. But first I need a bit of shut-eye, or you’ll not be able to make head nor tails out of my chicken scratch.” 

Reid’s eyebrows rise. He moves his lips as if trying to make sense of your words, then shakes his head as if faced with something truly incomprehensible. 

“Take care to wash yourself before you leave,” he orders, apparently giving up on deciphering your words. “There’s blood on your face, and only some of it yours.” 

Abandoning the support of the table you head for the sink. It’s akin to crossing the Atlantic and you’re trembling by the time you turn on the warm water tap. It ought to worry you, perhaps, the state that you’ve found yourself in lately. However, you had told Drake the truth earlier. Nothing ailed your body that a good night’s sleep and some food would not see made better. Tonight, you promise yourself, you’ll drink enough warm broth to soothe even the fussiest of bellies. Then you’ll sleep, deep under every blanket that you own, until well past midday. 

Tomorrow would be a new and better day. 

xxx 

Reid has you towel your hair dry before he allows you to leave. A young constable – too dim and fat to remind you in the slightest of Hobbs – walks half a step behind you, all the way from the station to your own lodgings. Whether by Reid’s orders or Drake’s you do not know, nor do you care to find out. You ignore the fellow’s attempt at conversation and then slam your door in his face. 

The din of the city has multiplied both the weariness and unease which plagues you. Dismissing the notion of dinner, you go straight to your bed. Your shoes weigh heavy with each step and you long to be rid of them. Instead you sink back onto your mattress at once. You end up resting horizontally across the bed, your shoes still tied to your feet like anchors. 

No matter, you think, it will not be the first time that you’ve slept in your boots. Worse by far is that your flask is all but empty, and as are the bottles so neatly lined up on the floor. No matter, you repeat, this time not without hesitation. One night sober will not kill you. 

xxx 

You do not sleep. 

You float, suspended in darkness, caught in the borderland between the waking world and the realm of Morpheus. The shadows around you come alive. They caress your skin, slithering their way through your mouth and nose. Having thus found their way into your head, they worm down long corridors lined with locked doors. 

The shadows have no need of keys. Have no respect for your secrets. No mercy for your peace of mind. 

You do not sleep. But nor can you wake, no matter how loud you scream.


	3. Chapter 3

Hands on your body. Warmer and more solid than those of your shadow memories. They squeeze your shoulders, fingers digging deep into your flesh.

“Steady now,” you hear someone say. “Steady, Matthew.”

That name – after a night like the one you just suffered through – is too much. You tear yourself free and roll away, off the bed and away from whoever would hurt you. You scrabble backwards until you find yourself trapped in the furthest corner of the room, the wall hard and unyielding against your back. Too late you remember your gun. Too late you remember that you’re no longer a helpless child. Squinting into the sharp light, you try and make out your attacker.

The shape of the man’s familiar. That means less than nothing. Familiar does not mean safe. You learned that early enough. However, it would appear that your body recognizes that you’re safe well before your mind does. Your fists have already begun to relax and your heart to calm when his name comes to you.

“Reid?” you croak, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“I did not mean to startle you.”

He speaks with a soft voice and does not approach. Rather he takes the liberty to sit down on your unmade bed. Once again you find yourself in the despicable position of gazing up at him. Only this time, you know better than to spring to your feet. For a while, the two of you just sit there, staring at each other in silence. Dust floats and swirls around him, dancing in the light filtered in through your dirty windows. Everything seems very quiet.

“Yesterday I thought you were drunk,” Reid eventually says, speaking softly still. “I didn’t realize that you were actually unwell. My apologies.”

You can count the number of times Reid has apologized to you on one hand, and still be left with enough fingers to stitch a wound or make a woman moan. At once, it becomes urgent that he leaves. You care not to think of the reasons, though they caw and flap their dark wings from where they perch in the back of your mind. You acknowledge only what you must: that you cannot allow this conversation to continue any further.

“Go away, Reid,” you mumble. “I shall write your report for you tomorrow.”

“It _is_ tomorrow,” he calmly counters. “Or at least what’s left of it. You’ve overslept, Captain.”

“I have not slept at all,” you immediately object, not realizing until it’s too late just how strange that claim must sound. Reid’s eyes narrow at your words. Knowing all too well the meaning of that look on his face, your heart speeds up again. He’ll not let it go now. Not until he’s taken you apart and put each miserable scrap under his magnifying glass.

“Strange that,” he muses, “seeing the difficulties I had in rousing you. If you were not asleep, then what…?”

Caught in a waking nightmare, you do not say.

“Leave me alone,” you plead instead.

But of course, he does not.

xxx

Reid frogmarches you across town.

It reminds you of nothing so much as being pulled by your ear across the nursery as a child. You do not hesitate to share this with him, your voice loud and peeved. Reid laughs at your words, a short but honest bark of amusement. If he notices how people stare at the pair of you, he gives no sign of it.

“I’ll admit to feeling a certain kinship with the person tasked with reining you in,” he dryly states. There’s something in his voice which might be mistaken for fondness, only you know better. There is, you remind yourself, an ocean of betrayal and regret between you. The good Inspector allows your presence because you’re good at what you do. The very moment you cease to be of use to him, your acquaintance will come to an end.

To believe anything else is just to set yourself up for disappointment.

xxx

He brings you to Drake’s cottage.

Rose opens the door, an apron tied around her waist. Her face’s rounder than it had been when you first saw her, and there are new streaks of silver in her hair. But the years have not dulled her eyes; they shine as bright and clever as they ever did. You realize that Reid’s face must be set just so however, because no sooner does she take in the pair of you than she frowns. Without further prompting she then turns to call for Drake.

Or rather she calls for Benny, which makes you grin despite yourself. The knowing look she rewards you with reminds you that there’s history between the two of you. That time had been when she’d held a special place in your heart, as sure as she now fills with the whole of Drake’s.

“Mrs. Drake,” you say, not allowing Reid’s iron grip around your neck to hamper you from sweeping the hat off your head and offering an exaggerated bow. She rolls her eyes at you and the corners of her lips twitch in a quicksilver smile. No proper lady, no matter that she now wore a ring on her finger and spent her days doing… whatever sensibly married women did. Mending Drake’s socks, you figure, shuddering at the thought.

“Mr. Reid?” Drake shows up behind Rose, still holding a napkin and with dismay etched into his already so severe features. “Surely not another child…? Not so soon.”

He sounds heartbroken. Rose reaches out for him at once, brushing her fingers against his hands.

“No, it is not work that brings me here, but rather _this_ ,” Reid answers, rattling you by the neck as if to draw their attention to you. You smile, wide but awkwardly, as three pairs of eyes inspect you and find you wanting. “The Captain’s in no state to be alone, of that much I am sure. But the cells at the station are full, and too cold besides. I’m afraid I cannot in good conscience bring him home with me to Matilda. She has an impressionable mind and he's...”

“He's _him_ ,” Drake summarizes drily. “What’s he gone and done now?”

“Is the Captain hurt?” Rose adds, speaking up before Reid has a chance to answer. There’s concern, plain as day, on her face.

Time had been, you think again with a swell of fondness, when you could have burrowed your head into the folds of her skirt and begged her to stroke your hair while you rested. Despite the certainty that Drake would put you in the ground for it, you still feel the temptation to fall to your knees by her feet. Not for pleasure, just comfort. Just to see if a woman’s touch could not ease the darkness inside you on its way.

You miss Reid’s reply, but not the way that that Rose’s worried frown deepens.

“Better bring him in then,” you hear Drake say.

Reid immediately pushes you inside, not letting go of your neck until the door’s closed and locked behind you.

xxx

“Tea,” Rose says, handing you a dainty cup.

“Lime flower,” you say, recognizing the scent at once. “Good for hysteria, or so old crones like to claim. That your diagnosis, darling, or theirs?”

“Mrs. Drake,” Rose corrects. Ignoring your question, she continues; “You’ve made them right worried about you, Captain, you truly have.”

Reid and Drake had withdrawn earlier, to consult in the privacy of the hallway. Meanwhile you had been invited to sit in a soft chair, with a blanket over your shoulders and the promise of a strengthening cup of tea. While you have grown somewhat used to Drake fussing over you on occasion, Reid has never given you reason to expect the same from him. You vaguely remember having to actually commandeer a chair from him when Constantine and his sergeant had beaten you bloody. That said, you suppose you’ve seen him fret over Drake once or twice over the years.

Next to you, Rose has picked up her needlework. As you sip the hot tea, you watch her clever fingers at work. Considering her past, she’s surprisingly good at what she does: her stiches small and even. You’d let her stich you up, you think, much rather so than either one of the buffoons in the hallway.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding doubtful.

You assure her that you did not mean to say that aloud. Sinking back into the chair, you then allow your gaze to travel across the room. Once you would have thought it plain, the home that Rose had made with her Drake. Nothing to compare with the luxury of Tenter Street, or the life that Morton would have offered her. Now… well, you still think it plain. But when you look at her you see a newfound peace. A brick and mortar anchor might never have made you happy, but on her it's certainly worked its magic.

Sensing perhaps that you’re beyond making idle conversation, Rose begins to hum to fill the silence. You recognize the lullaby from well before her days of fame. She’d hummed it into your sweat-damp hair as you fell asleep, her legs tangled with yours and silk sheets covering you both. It’s a fond memory, bringing with it a sense of calm and ease.

The room’s warm, and the tea has soothed the ache in your belly. You sink deeper into the chair, realizing that you’re falling asleep but unable to do much but to blink in lazy protest.


	4. Chapter 4

There once was a boy who left his dead father’s house and never looked back. That boy became a man, and that’s where the story ought to end.

But, God help you, it does not. 

xxx 

You wake to the sound of your own sobbing. 

It strikes you as a terrible and ugly noise, the sound of a grown man’s crying. It undoes you, reducing you to the role of a sniveling child once more. To muffle the worst of it you cover your mouth with your fist, biting down on your own flesh. You shake, bitterly cold even as sweat pools under your arms and stains the back of your shirt. 

A small light flickers to life in the darkness. A candle’s lit, chasing away some of the shadows. After some moments, you have placed yourself in time and space. The blanket, smelling faintly of boiled cabbage and Drake’s cheap soap, does most of the work. You catch your breath and wipe your saliva-streaked hand against your trousers. Then you reach for your flask, remember just in time that it’s empty and pat yourself down for your cigarette case instead. You find it in your coat pocket and fish one out with trembling fingers. 

More than anything you want to run. Put another ocean between yourself and everything that would dig so deep into old wounds. But it seems as if somewhere along the road you have learned courage. So instead you straighten your back and meet Drake’s eyes, knowing full well that your face must still carry plenty of evidence of your weakness. 

“That’s better,” Drake murmurs, smiling encouragingly. His hair’s messy with sleep and the first few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. It would appear that not only have you fallen asleep in the man’s favorite chair, but you have also driven your unwilling host from his bed in the middle of the night. 

“You’re here now, safe and sound,” he continues, in the same soothing manner. “Nothing evil will befall you under my roof.” 

“Don’t touch me,” you warn him, your voice so raw that you barely recognize it. “Do not come any closer.” 

“I will not,” Drake assures you. He stands still and straight, as if rooted to the floor by your words. “I’ll stay right where I am, brother, until you tell me that I may do otherwise.” 

His kindness undoes you again. You wipe furiously at your eyes, refusing to do the civilized thing and look away. There’s no judgement to be found in Drake’s expression though. 

“You think us strangers to nightmares in this house?” he asks, perhaps noting your surprise. 

“No,” you reply after a while. “I suppose I don’t.” 

xxx 

“You’re a medical man,” Drake says, many hours later, “do you mean to say that there’s not some tincture or powder which would offer you relief?“ 

He’s sat patiently with you as you wait for dawn, watching in silence as you fill his rooms with smoke. Now he’s on his feet, drawing the curtains away from the windows and carefully sweeping the ashes away from the stove. You can hear Rose moving around in the upstairs rooms, her feet light but the old wood happy for any excuse to creak. She’s humming again, the same tune as last night and just loud enough to reach your ears. 

“If I knew of something with the power to reliably take away a man’s nightmares and provide him with a good night’s sleep,” you answer Drake, somewhat belatedly, “I would have long since made a rich man out of myself.” 

You do not add that men like Drake, and Reid for that matter, would have made for your most dependable customers. Nor do you tell him that you’ve tried plenty of tinctures and decoctions in your youth. Laudanum you dismissed early, the creep of dependency too frightening. Hyoscyamus has been a good friend, on and off over the years, but does not truly suit your restless personality. Complete exhaustion however, of body and mind alike, tends to work like a charm. And when it does not… 

“I rely on whores and whiskey,” you say, grinning wide despite the fact that he cannot see you. ”A most potent remedy, in my medical opinion. Only now I find myself too weary to make myself useful in bed. And, though I am loath to admit it, whiskey does not agree with me as it once did.” 

“End times must be near,” Drake says, doing a poor job of hiding his concern under dry amusement. When he turns, there’s a smear of soot on his face. It nearly distracts you from the next words out of his mouth. “You have not said, but I take it that it’s the deaths of those poor children that haunt you so?” 

You rub your hand over your stomach, feeling as if he’s driven his fist into your body rather than just caught you unaware with his question. 

“Yes,” you hear yourself answer. And it’s true enough, even if it’s not the whole truth. 

Drake nods once, and then says nothing else on the matter. 

xxx 

Later that day you find yourself seated at Drake’s dinner table. 

Rose is long gone. She’d kissed Drake’s stubbly face shortly after breakfast, collected her shawl and then wished you both well before leaving to call on a friend. There’s no respectable woman in all of London who would accept visitors so early, but Drake says nothing of it so nor do you. It’s a strange household though, you muse, where the man cleans the hearth and the wife leaves for places unknown in the morning. 

Now he brings you coffee, with a generous amount of sugar stirred into it. It’s sweet, thick as tar and likely to give a man heart palpitations. Unlike the lumpy gruel that Rose prepared you for breakfast or the mutton broth that she all but threatened you with for supper, it’s absolutely unsuitable food for an invalid. And, as such, exactly what you find yourself craving. 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re an angel, Benito?” you ask. 

He makes a show of inspecting you carefully. 

“None as ugly as you,” he then assures you with a smirk. 

xxx 

When you try to light your next smoke, that very same angel banishes you from the house. It appears that Rose has made it clear, sometime between burning Drake’s toast and failing to whisk your gruel, that she does not appreciate the stink of smoke clinging to her new curtains. Taking it as a cue to leave and let Drake get on with his morning affairs, you attempt to grab your hat and satchel. To your surprise, Drake deftly snatches them both out of your hands. 

“Just sit here on the stairs and smoke for a while,” he says. “And keep in mind that you’re expected for supper. I’d appreciate it if you did not force me out in this weather to go looking for you.” 

You do as he says, if for no other reason than the fact that your head spins by the time you’ve made it through the door. 

It’s a chilly day, the hazy outline of the sun just visible above the rooftops. Blowing smoke towards the sky, you watch snow drift down over the city to then melt into sludge the moment it touches the ground. Indulging in rare nostalgia, you remember proper snowfalls. Back home you’d grown used to the sight of snowflakes, as large as silver dollars, tumbling down from the sky to cover everything in sight. It had seemed like magic back then, to fall asleep in your ordinary world and wake up to such a changed landscape. 

You light a new cigarette with the glowing remains of the first one. Caitlin had always hated it when you smoked them in that fashion, lighting one after another until the smoke was thick enough to choke a man. But you find it clears your mind and eases your worries, all at the small cost of a dull headache. So, you waste the morning smoking and watching the crowd. Eventually you spot a familiar man, turning a corner with a basket on his arm. As he comes closer you notice that the cold has colored Reid’s cheeks as red as winter apples. Meanwhile the wind has ruffled his hair so that it tumbles over his eyes. It makes him looks younger, reminding you that you’re actually a few years his senior. 

Drawing closer Reid promptly spoils the effect by frowning unhappily at the mere sight of you. Having caught a glimpse of yourself in Rose’s looking glass, you suppose you cannot blame him though. The smudges under your eyes resemble bruises and there’s a hollowness to your cheeks that was not there some months ago. You’ve slept, for a certain value of the word, in your suit for two nights in a row and not changed your whites for longer still. As for your hair, you have done nothing with it since you finger-combed it the other day. In short, you look like something that a man like Reid, with his clean-shaved face and brushed coat, would scrape off the bottom of his boots. 

“Have you no gloves?” Reid asks, looking pointedly at your red-chapped hands. 

You blink at him, having expected all and any criticism but that. 

“Let’s go inside,” he continues, pushing past you. “On your feet, Captain.” 

Lost for words, you obey.


	5. Chapter 5

You sit beside each other at the table, elbows knocking together as Drake brings out plates and cutlery. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence a strange pressure begins to grow in your chest. The room, so ample in size when it had been just you and the Drakes, seems now to shrink around you. Reid, you decide with sudden certainty, takes up more than his fair share of space.

Gazing at the door, you think of leaving. With enough whiskey in your system, and perhaps with the addition of something from your medicine cabinet, you’ll have no choice but to sleep. And should you be besieged by nightmares, the walls of your room shall keep your secrets. Certainly better so than you imagine Drake will should Reid press him for information.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Reid says at once, apparently now able to read your mind. “You’d not make it as far as to the door.”

He speaks like a man stating a mere fact rather than one offering a threat. You shudder, feeling the winter cold acutely despite the fire. There’s, of course, only one sure method to keep you from leaving. Drake has not touched you since you woke him from his sleep with your blubbering. But if Reid asks him to detain you, there’s no doubt in your mind that he would. The very thought of someone holding you down keeps you anchored in your seat.  
  
You try to focus, despite the sudden tightness in your chest. Reid has apparently brought you calf‘s foot jelly.

“Good and strengthening food,” Drake says approvingly as he cuts into a thick slice of meat pie with buttery crust. “Just what the doctor would have ordered.”

“I’d never order anyone to eat this,” you assure them, poking at the jelly just to watch it wobble.

“Don’t play with your food,” Reid admonishes, making a perfect, if unintentional, impression of somebody’s mother.

“Have I mentioned lately,” you snipe, "how well motherhood suits you?”

A cruel thing to say, especially for someone so well acquainted with the fate of the late Mrs. Reid. You know this and regret your quip well before Drake’s foot comes crashing against your shin. Reid does not answer though, just keeps his head ducked over his meal. Chastened by his silent hurt as you never would have been by mere words, you take a bite of the jelly. It slithers down your throat like a mouthful of ground-up worms, salty and slick, causing you to cough and splutter.

“So it is true what they say. Doctors do make for the worst patients,” Drake says, grinning at Reid before turning to you; “Don’t make such a fuss, Jackson. In a few days you’ll feel better and then you and Mr. Reid can come over for a proper Sunday supper.”

They keep talking, but you’re not listening anymore.

xxx

You have only a few clear memories of your childhood.

Clinging to your mother’s skirts as thunderbolts light up the sky. Racing after Daniel, your chest burning as your feet drum against the hard ground. Climbing the tree outside your grandfather’s house, the sun beating on your back and the air sweet with the scent of grass. Those are the good ones, the few that you care to bring out from the dark recesses of your mind.

Then there’s the one of a Sunday dinner. That memory you cannot seem to lose, no matter how much distance you put between yourself and your father’s house. It haunted your sleep when you left home to study medicine, and later as you travelled across the country working for the Pinks. It continued to haunt you on the ocean steamer which carried you across the Atlantic. And now, living under a new name and on a new continent, the memory haunts you still.

The spray of blood as your father slit his throat. The moment of stunned silence, followed by shrill shrieking. The relief, so carefully hidden away.

xxx

“I need to lie down,” you mumble.

It’s as close to a plea for help as you’ll allow yourself.

They ask no questions. When you stand, it’s to find that your knees wobble underneath you. Careful hands guide you up the stairs, Drake taking much of your weight. He attempts to speak to you, his voice a deep rumble to your left but you cannot make yourself focus on his words.

A door pushes open and you’re nudged across the threshold. Then they sit you down on the side of a narrow bed. Drake kneels down to tug off your boots while Reid. hindered somewhat by his bad shoulder, struggles to remove your coat. You do your best to help out but your own limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. Eventually Drake comes to your rescue and soon you’re left sitting in your shirt, trousers and socks. Drake begins fiddling with the shirt buttons, but you slap at his hands to discourage him. He retaliates by pushing you onto your back and tucking you into bed, pulling the blankets tight around you.

Then the door creaks shut and you’re left to the mercy of your own mind.

xxx

You do not dream because you do not sleep.

Instead you stare up at the ceiling, eyes dry and mind all but empty. Instead you push your hot face deep into the pillows, surfacing for breath first when your lips tingle for lack of air. Instead you hug your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself as if by doing so you can somehow make yourself cease to exist.

xxx

“-drink this.”

You turn to your side, squinting to make out the hazy shape of Reid’s face. He looks old and tired now, not at all like the red-cheeked, messy haired man who’d shown up at Drake’s for supper. It’s possible that you tell him as much. He hums non-committedly but offers no further comment on your observation. Perhaps, you think, you did not speak at all.

“You need to drink this,” Reid repeats. “It’s to help you sleep.”

“And if I don’t want to sleep?” you wonder, your voice close to a slur. In response, Reid’s frown deepens. It ages him another five years.

“At this point, that’s truly not an option. Drink up, Captain,” he orders. “Or I’ll have Drake pour it down your throat.”

You jerk the glass away from his hands, downing its contents like you would a shot of whiskey. Yet the bitter taste of the opium lingers on your tongue. After wiping your mouth, you sink back into bed and allow Reid to pluck the glass out of your hand. He says something, the tone suggesting that it might be a question, but you’ve already returned to gazing up at the ceiling.

After some time the laudanum makes it impossible to resist the call of sleep any further. Capitulating to the inevitable, you allow your eyes to close.


	6. Chapter 6

You dream of suffocating, your head pushed into a pillow to muffle all sound. Of sweat trickling down your spine and your hands digging so hard into the sheets that your fingers ache come morning. Of a terrible weight and pressure, impossible to escape no matter how hard you struggle…

“Don’t startle him,” someone says. “He doesn’t react well to it.”

xxx

Sunlight creeps along the floor and the air smells faintly of boiled mutton. Familiar voices drift up from downstairs. Somewhere far away a baby wails, loud and insistent. You try to work out where you are, but it’s harder than it ought to be. You have to wrestle each thought into focus and eventually you just give up. Staring up at the ceiling, you attempt to postpone your return to sleep by just a few more moments.

“You need a shave.”

Your body's so heavy that you barely twitch. Rolling your head to the side, you find Reid sitting next to you. Your first thought is that, with him by your side, you must be safe. He did not let them hang you for the Ripper's crimes, and he will not let you be harmed now either. But then you sluggishly remember that, no, that doesn't hold true anymore. Even through the fogs of laudanum, that realization _hurts_.

“What?” you say, trying to distract yourself from your thoughts.

“A shave,” Reid repeats. His face seems strangely blurry, like a smudged oil painting. “Soon you could be mistaken for Sergeant Atherton.”

You raise your hand to swipe it across your face, feeling the thick stubble despite the numbness in your fingers.

“That’d be unfortunate,” you mumble.

Reid’s chuckle follows you into your dreams. It makes for a nice change.

xxx

You wake to a dull headache and the knowledge that you’re not alone in the room.

Peering around through half-closed eyelids you find Drake sitting next to you, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he reads through a thick file. Piles of paper tower precariously around him, categorized according to God only knew what system. Even half-asleep you recognize your own writing on some of the sheets. If you tilt your head just right, you might even be able to make out some of the words. Instead you give up the ruse of sleeping, opening your eyes fully and yawning obnoxiously.

Drake shifts his attention from the papers to you, but says nothing. As you attempt to change position in the bed, your joints crackle and pop. Every part of you aches as if you’ve barely moved an inch for weeks. The thought leaves you distinctly uncomfortable, a discomfort that only grows as strong hands haul you up until you’re only half-reclined. Drake then insists on propping a few pillows behind your back before finally easing back to give you some space.

“How long have I been here?” you ask, having to repeat yourself as your voice breaks.

Drake hands you a glass, politely looking away as the trembling in your hands cause you to spill a good third of the water.

“It’s been three days now,” he says, as non-judgmental as if you asked about the weather. “Though you have not been asleep for all of it.”

“Oh?”

“You also spent a great deal of time staring at nothing.”

_“Oh.”_

There’s not much else to say to that.

You rub a hand across your eyes, trawling through your mind for _anything_ to fill in the blanks in your memory. A handful of scenes come to mind, everything else lost in a gray haze. It’s hardly the first time you’ve lost a few days. Mostly it’s been due to drinking. A few times illness or injury had been to blame. But never like this.

“I don’t remember much,” you admit.

It’s a rare moment of honesty but Drake just shrugs.

“Probably just as well,” he says, reaching over to rescue the glass from your shaky grip. You shrink away, pushing back into the mattress. That finally elicits a response, though you much rather it hadn’t. Hurriedly looking away from Drake’s clenched jaw, you try and make your next question sound like a jest, even forcing a fake smile.

“Embarrass myself terribly, have I?” you drawl.

“No more than usual,” Drake answers, voice clipped as he busies himself gathering up the papers. “You’ve slept, mumbled and trashed around, sure, but nothing as bad as that first night you stayed here. You woke to drink some broth and, well...”

Here his voice trails off but you can imagine the rest of the sentence. After all, no man spent three days in bed without needing to empty his bladder.

“Reid’s been here?” you ask, flashing to a memory of discussing… Atherton’s beard?

“Sent him home to sleep in his own bed. The Inspector’s no youngster anymore.”

You don’t point out that neither’s Drake. There’s a debt owed here, you acknowledge. Your ledger’s marked in red, as far as Bennet Drake’s concerned. Reid too, though between your various falling-outs and your wife all but killing the man you’ve given up on sorting out that particular mess. You’ll just continue to owe him until well past the time you draw your last breath.

If Reid means to collect past that moment, well, he’ll just have to fight the devil for you.

xxx

You wash and shave, changing into clean clothes. Your own, fetched from your rooms. You count yourself lucky that you do not have to dress in Drake’s cast-offs.

Your shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders though and your belt just barely keeps your trousers from falling off your hips. Tracing your hands over your body you find bones and hard angles where before they were none. Sitting down on the edge of the bed to catch your breath, you think back to the past couple of months. You remember the nagging winter cold, making itself known in your rooms as well as in the basement of Tenter Street. You remember working, wrist-deep inside some poor child's belly or bent over a desk writing useless reports. And you remember drinking yourself asleep, alone in the dark with the ghosts.

Eating though... no, you can't remember making much time for that.

“Ah, good, you're awake.".

You startle, pulled abruptly from your own thoughts by Reid's sudden appearance in Drake’s spare bedroom.

“You don’t knock?” you ask now, attempting to hide your surprise behind a smoke screen of bluster.

“You don’t usually frighten so easily,” Reid counters, gazing briefly in the direction of the room’s only chair only to stay on his feet in the end. He shifts his weight uneasily from one foot to the other though, as if not quite sure of what to do with himself. Walking over to the window he first peers outside, then turns his attention to you. You remain seated, staring back while he inspects everything from the still rumpled bed to your sock-clad feet. Clearing his throat, Reid then finally adds: “Drake tells me you’re much recovered.”

“Recovered,” you repeat, making a face at the word. “I was never sick, Reid. Just tired. And drugged to my eyeballs, thanks to that laudanum of yours.”

Showing uncharacteristic restraint, Reid doesn’t contradict you.

It troubles you that he will not fight back. That he will not poke holes at your claims, as has always been his way.

“You should have left me in my rooms,” you insist, pushing just to see how far he’ll let you go. “I could have rested there, as well as I have here. Better perhaps, seeing as how Drake snores and his neighbor has a newborn with a bad temper and healthy lungs.”

Reid doesn’t bite, just shakes his head as if dismissing every word out of your mouth. And it’s true, you are talking absolute shit. Had Reid left you to your own devices you’d have drunk every drop of alcohol in your home, then either headed out in the street for more or raided your medicine cabinets for alternatives. Either way, you imagine his actions have saved your life. Again.

Yet you can’t stop yourself from pushing. Something about Reid’s patience rubs you the wrong way. Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s never been patient with you before. Not even when Caitlin left you, tearing your heart out and leaving you a wet-eyed wreck in his parlor. He’d thought you a gutter rat then. Without use or worth. You're still the same person. If anything, the past few days should have served to lower the Inspector's opinion of you further.The patience... the underserved kindness... it unnerves you.

“Tell me Reid,” you continue, stretching your lips in a mean smile, “have you had the time to do some actual police work in between playing nursemaid? Or are the pickpockets, brawlers and child murderers of Whitechapel left to roam the streets as they please while you and Drake busy yourselves singing lullabies?”

That finally does the trick. Reid pales, only for two red smudges to bloom across his cheekbones. And, because your mind’s always been a fickle and perverse thing, you immediately feel a stab of regret. Closing your mouth, you wish you could take the words back.

“Thank you for reminding me of my duties, Captain.”

Reid grinds the words out, taking a shallow breath before opening his mouth again. You brace yourself, fully expecting him to hit back and tear you apart with his words. You’ve deserved it, ten times over for your ingratitude alone.

“You’re tired still,” he continues instead. “I should let you rest.”

And with that Reid leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.


End file.
